


Lifewater

by LordTomyh, The_Jashinist



Series: The Five Pillars [1]
Category: League of Legends
Genre: Blood and Torture, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Resurrection, and these three totally have something to do with each other, because i have been denying my trash for a loooooong time, because that shit is painful, but don't worry, keyword most, most of the characters are main, no really in this fic resurrection hurts like hell, not so nice references, oh yeah there are ocs, ya gotta work for your life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-05
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-09-14 21:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9204014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordTomyh/pseuds/LordTomyh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Jashinist/pseuds/The_Jashinist
Summary: A second chance at living leads a certain warden to do a lot of stupid things while on the run from the Black Rose.  Incidentally, he drags one of the Rose's members and a Shuriman nomad all over Runeterra in an attempt to find something that might restore the Shadow Isles to their former state, or at least look really badass trying.  That said there's a good bit more than Noxians chasing him and a few of those things might just be the warden's past, things he'd rather forget.





	1. Memories

**Author's Note:**

> A big hi and thank you to my beta reader/co-author LordTomyh who helped me with editing and fleshing out shorter chapters. I'm crediting him as a co-creator since he was a huge help to me despite living on the complete other end of the planet.

Memories weren’t a thing Thresh liked to dwell on.  He didn’t like letting his mind wander as it stood, but memories were the worst, often because frequently, they weren’t his.  There was only so much control Thresh could exercise over his lantern and the souls within, and thoughts, particularly those directed at Thresh, were not in his domain of control.

This, in particular, was why Thresh avoided the monastery he was born in.  He could deal with Yorick. The half-dead monk didn’t seem invested in getting rid of the only other monk on the Isles that recalled the being he once was.  Yorick must’ve known, to an extent, that Thresh had things in the monastery he’d rather avoid, and that he’d only return to the ruined structure under dire circumstances.

And dire they were.

Dire indeed.

Dire enough that Yorick was going to help?  Doubtful, he didn’t really  _ help _ any fully blighted denizens of the Isles, and Thresh wasn’t about to try and get that help.

A shock of pain tore through Thresh’s side and he steadied himself against a crumbling wall.  A large circle of seared rot was still smoldering there, a souvenir from yet another encounter with that blasted Demacian.

He couldn’t just let things be, could he?

Straightening up as best he could, Thresh stumbled through the monastery doors, flinching at the hinges’ ever-ominous creaking.  Yorick wasn’t here. Perhaps he was elsewhere on the Isles, walking along the coast in search of shipwrecked mainlanders and Bilgewater paylangi that survived crashing into the reef.

Thresh stumbled forwards, but collapsed on the floor of the monastery in a crumpled heap.  He wasn’t actually sure how long he’d laid there before the blackened stone began to warp in his vision. After a few moments, the black floor had turned to its old brown tones shining in the sunlight, the silver embedded in lines along the marble glittered, and Thresh felt an immense sadness well up in his chest.

This is why he hated coming here.  This place, once so warm and inviting, liked to taunt Thresh with images of its former glory.  Thresh had grown up here, played with the other children in its sunbathed halls.  He snuck out with the others under star-soaked skies to attend the forest court or watch the nightbloom flower.  He’d lost count of how many times he’d seen knowledge seekers pass through the Hall of Conjunction, how many times he’d passed through it himself.  He could barely recall the other monks, their kind smiles and their not very funny jokes that Thresh always laughed at anyway, especially when the monk himself had a particularly funny laugh.  He couldn’t remember how the sunlight felt, but he remembered how warm the Isles always were, how friendly the people and the forest.  He remembered the sting of a needle as his mother traced tattoos into his skin, the tattoos of his people.  He remembered his father carving matau and teaching him what it meant to watch, to wait, to protect.  He remembered the people, the forest, he remembered the Isles.

He remembered that their destruction had come from a gamble, a gamble that he’d made.

“Tane!”

Thresh was broken from his trance as he was violently lifted off the ground and carried into an adjacent room.

“Are you alright?”

Thresh couldn’t seem to find the strength to respond, the world was oscillating between gilded visions of the past and a clear picture of the present.  With one vision, a pulse of energy ripped through him from the seared spot on his side, dragging with it a sharp feeling of pure agony.  Thresh screamed, and convulsed, and a man leaned over him in worry, switching from the past to the present so quickly the Thresh couldn’t identify anything but a short black beard.  The pulses continued, and it felt to Thresh as if the seared flesh was trying to spread all the way across his body.

“I should’ve known,” a cool hand fell over Thresh’s forehead, and he gasped.  He felt the cold, but the pulses of energy had until now dulled the fact that his entire body was burning.

“Calm down,” the man whispered, “calm down Tane, the monastery is trying to heal you.”

Thresh found the energy for a few words as another pulse ravaged his body.  The tone stung his throat, he knew that if he could, he’d be crying.

“It burns.”

“It’s going to, she’s not healing your wounds; she’s healing your curse.”

Another pulse ripped through Thresh and he let out a loud wail and one hand flew up to his chest and clutched it, as it had suddenly begun pounding like a drum incessantly.  He knew the feeling, it had been centuries since it had come from his own chest.

At some point, Thresh couldn’t remember more than burning pain and careful, soft whispers before the pulses faded, but the burning, the pounding, and the searing pain all remained.  Thresh felt the man slowly lift Thresh’s head and tie something around his neck.

“Breathe,” he whispered, and Thresh opened his mouth to take in a huge breath, the cold, damp air stung his throat, “how are you feeling?”

“How do you think?” Thresh asked.  The man seemed to laugh.

“Just rest,” he said softly, his hand returning to its place over Thresh’s forehead.  The man began to hum, a familiar old lullaby of the Isles.  It seemed to do the trick, because in a moment, Thresh had passed out.

He woke with a strange ache in his chest, but stared up at the blackened ceiling before realizing he was in one of the monastery’s sick rooms, on one of the tables they’d place patients in desperate need of care, the ones about to die.  These rooms once glimmered with the sun shining through the glass panels, enchanted so the sick could see the glittering pixies that flitted about the monastery, invisible to all who didn’t bother to look, but the glass, whether the enchantment stuck at all, could no longer show those giddy little tricksters.  They weren’t there to be seen.

Thresh sat up, doing his best to ignore the ache in his chest, and found himself face to face with a mirror, and inside it, a face he hadn’t seen in a long, long time.  He knew every aspect of it, the softened features, the warm brown skin, and most prominently, the tattoos covering the face and arms, distinct swirls and patterns Thresh knew all too well.  After all, they were his.

Thresh scrambled off the table and got closer to the mirror for a better look.

“What do you see when you come here?” a voice asked, and Thresh turned to the door.  Standing in the doorframe was Yorick, with a strange look on his face.  Thresh straightened up, and involuntarily, his ears drooped.

“A crumbling wreck of my home,” Thresh snarled, “What do you  _ think _ I see?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Yorick shook his head, “do you see things that aren’t there?  Visions of the past?”

Thresh paused.

“Sort of,” he nodded, “but what does that have to do with anything?”

“This monastery is alive Tane,” Yorick stepped forward, “you know she is as well as any of your kind, and something in her, gods forbid, believed for all these years, that you were worth healing.”

Thresh set his mouth in a line and glanced at the glass, remembering word for word the enchantment placed there, for like all of his kind, he’d been taught the glamour.  The monastery had been built by his kind, not Yorick’s.  Every brick was laid with a spell, every keystone a glamour, every archway, a rune.  If you looked, you saw lights in the shade and rainbows at midnight, if you listened, you heard merry songs and gentle lullabies.  It was a place of magic, not that any human really appreciated it.  Of course, Thresh knew the building lived, that was the point.  What did that have to do with him?

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The monastery brought you back to life,” Yorick replied, “I don’t know how or why, but I know she did, and I know now that she’s been trying for a while.”

“Mm,” Thresh pulled a face, “I’m sure you’re  _ thrilled _ about that.”

“Tane-” Yorick began.

“Oh will you stop?” Thresh raised his voice, “Tane stopped being my name when the brothers decided to lock me in that stupid vault.”

“I will agree when this,” Yorick turned Thresh back towards the mirror, “stops being the child I remember.”  Yorick’s grip tightened on Thresh’s shoulders, “You have a second chance to live, and whether or not you deserve it has no bearing on that fact.  Whether or not the monks had any idea what would happen because of their actions is irrelevant.  What happened was not your fault.  I’m no longer watching you reject yourself over choices you made.  What would’ve happened if you hadn’t done anything?”

Thresh exhaled slowly.

“They would’ve killed everyone.”

“You did what you could to  _ save _ everyone on these Isles. Be proud that you thought of anything.”

Thresh nodded slowly, and traced one of the tattoos on his cheek.

“I can’t stay here,” he pointed out, “the revenant would kill me, let alone what the others would do. And besides, the court, with the monastery gone I should return to it.”

“Well,” Yorick gave a vague smile, “do you still remember how to sail?”


	2. A Question of Loyalties

Carmilla kicked open the door, leaving a rather noticeable footprint on the door as she did.  She’d been somewhere with a plethora of mud just a few minutes before, probably the barracks, knowing her.

“With all the grace of a queen,” Vladimir commented sarcastically, not looking up from his book, and not moving from the chair he was seated in.  Nevertheless, he peered over the pages of his book as the young woman entered.  She was clad in high-grade Noxian armor that downplayed her already minimal curves, but all the features he’d grown fond of were visible enough, the slope of her waist, her regal face and long brown hair.  There was a rather playful glint in her dark blue eyes today, not usually a very good sign when working with her, but under the circumstances, it was quite the opposite.

“I’m not a queen,” Carmilla retorted.

“Direct descendant of the Iron Revenant and the last vestige of true royal blood in Noxus?” Vladimir raised an eyebrow, “Are you sure you aren’t the rightful queen?”

“There’s no monarchy left in Noxus darling,” Carmilla replied, “royal blood or not, but for your money I’d refrain from bringing up the Iron Revenant.”

“You could still stand to show some manners,” Vladimir scoffed.

“Oi,” Carmilla leaned on Vladimir’s chair, “I said yes, stop nagging.”

“I’ll nag all I want,” Vladimir replied, tapping the young woman on the forehead, but still not looking away from his book, “those doors are expensive, that military grade boot you’ve caked in sludge is not.”

“Oh, well aren’t you charming,” Carmilla snorted.

“Weren’t you on an investigation?” Vladimir asked, “A vital investigation?”

“His next job is supposedly in Zaun,” Carmilla waved off the question, “you can’t gather evidence in Zaun unless you break into the crime scene.  So I sent a war mason out to take a look.  Besides, I can’t drop in to say hello?  Gods, you’re acting like we’re still courting instead of actually betrothed.  Not that I much like this courtship business.”

“Last I checked, I never told you where I lived.”

“Oh, you have friends.”

“Swain told you, didn’t he?”

“Obviously Swain told me.  What am I not allowed in your house?”

“I wanted to formally invite you.”

“Well you know where I live, so now it’s mutual.”

Vladimir smiled slightly and placed a marker into his book to save the page before closing it and setting it down on the table beside him.  After a slow breath, he reached up and, with one hand, gestured towards his lap.  Carmilla let out a soft laugh and slid from the back of the chair to the gestured spot, wrapping her arms around Vladimir’s shoulders.

Vladimir smiled at his fiancée.  She was a pretty young woman, pale, but with striking freckles that, despite suggestions from other nobility to have them removed or covered, she had kept quite gladly.  A scar on her cheek marred her face slightly, and most considered her somewhat unfit for marriage, more interested in the affairs of war and state than those of love.  Even before their courtship, Vladimir had found her drawing.  He’d been warned that she wasn’t one for the role of a submissive wife, but Vladimir wasn’t interested in the endeavor, and found it odd that any lord of Noxus’s noble houses even looked for such a woman in the empire.  As far as he could tell, even the “ladylike” ones had more interest in state affairs, and weren’t about to shy away from the political sphere because of an engagement of any sort.  That simply wasn’t how Noxian women behaved.  It wasn’t how they were taught to behave.

Vladimir hadn’t really appreciated this fact before Carmilla, courting her had been a long and interesting affair, admittedly far more passionate and enjoyable than Vladimir had expected of a courtship.  He had selected Carmilla out of a line of other noble women for political reasons; the House of Greylark was once royalty, and still held a significant role in Noxian politics and military.  She was an advantageous match, and despite his misgivings, he found her interest in the political sphere to be quite charming.  She looked at things in manners of how it would affect Noxus’s reputation and its people, not simply the expansion of their borders and acquisition of property.  She had championed Vastayan rights in Swain’s legion and led the only faction of High Command that opposed Ionian occupation under Boram, signified by the crest of the God Willow.  Her beliefs were unpopular among other nobles, but the people loved her for them.  Vladmir had thought this admirable, if a little naïve.  Noticing the blooming romance, LeBlanc and Elise had decided that Carmilla was the ideal candidate for relaying messages to the hemomancer, knowing the young woman to be very good at her job, and it seems Swain had also picked up on Carmilla’s use as a messenger, though he preferred her for pursuits of diplomacy and war, rather than making her a simple errand girl.  Of course, as LeBlanc and Elise had made clear upon learning of Vladimir’s betrothal to the young noble, they thought little of her, a woman less skilled in the affairs of court, and better at navigating the wants and needs of the common people and Noxus’s other relations, particularly in Ionia and among the Vastayan Ophelis tribe of the Northern Steppe.  To Vladimir, this made her a far better queen than any of the manipulated monarchy LeBlanc seemed to crave.

“What?” she asked, noticing Vladimir’s stare.

“You’re here for more than just a visit,” he commented, “What do you want Carmilla?”

“You truly don’t believe that I came to see you?” Carmilla rested her head on Vladimir’s shoulder, “Come now, surely you must think better of me.”

“I do,” Vladimir nodded, “but were you here for a simple visit, you would not be wearing something so hard to remove, if you’ll pardon my insinuation.  Hence: what do you want?”

“Observant as always,” Carmilla scoffed, a hand carefully tracing Vladimir’s jaw, “Swain caught me in High Command, he said someone, I’m banking on Elise, had returned from the Isles with a report that one of the wraiths had been resurrected.  He wants you to talk to him.  You know, after he goes through Nox and the Faceless, they always want to dissect people and all.”

“Dull,” Vladimir slid a hand up around Carmilla’s waist, “would you like to change out of that uniform?  I’m sure I have something for you to wear.”

“And if you don’t?” Carmilla asked.

“Oh, I’ll have something,” Vladimir gave a sly grin, “whether there’s a dress among my things or not.”

“That’s very insinuating of you my lord,” Carmilla leaned forward and pressed her lips against Vladimir’s, “but I think you want me to look first, am I correct?”

“I’d like to finish the chapter in my book, yes,” Vladimir nodded.  Carmilla faked a pout, but hopped off of Vladimir’s lap and left the room.  After a few minutes, he glared over at a corner.

“You send her then come to speak with me?” he asked.  LeBlanc faded into view and approached, her heels clicking on the marble floor.

“You talk like you two are already married,” LeBlanc smiled.

“Says the woman who had an affair with the previous Grand General and spoke just like that to him, when it pleased you.”

“I thought we agreed not to speak of that.”

“No, I promised you I wouldn’t tell anyone, and I haven’t.  Now, are you just here to criticize my choice of a wife or is there an actual point to this visit?”

“Have you spoken to her about the Black Rose?” LeBlanc asked, “That is, the possibility of inducting her?  As much as Elise and I are against it, royal blood supporting us would be an asset.”

“Carmilla has no interest in magic of the Black Rose’s ilk, she never has,” Vladimir replied, “and Swain is opposed to it.  You know he’s aware of her dislike of the organization, since he shares it.  The remaining royal family had close ties with Boram before you mucked things up.”

“You knew that Boram needed to go,” LeBlanc argued.

“And as you have been reminded time and time again,” Vladimir stood, “I did not believe that Boram needed to die.  The people loved him in a way you could never attain, and you nearly destroyed Noxus trying to regain your power over the nation.  Carmilla worries you in the same way as Boram, except she worries you more because she’s not paranoid, or is it the Wardens that scare you?”

“Be wary of her,” LeBlanc warned, “and be wary of the effect loving her has on your loyalties.”

LeBlanc vanished into thin air just as the door opened and Carmilla stepped in, clad in a long, stunning crimson dress that suited her well.

“Lost in thought?” Carmilla smiled, then gave the dress a twirl, “I honestly thought you wouldn’t have anything.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve taken a full stock of the clothing in this estate,” Vladimir admitted, “but that dress looks quite good on you, if I must say so.”

Carmilla smiled and twirled in it again, laughing like a child.  Vladimir couldn’t help but smile.  The question of loyalties could wait, right now he wanted to focus on one thing, and that one thing was love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OC PRIMARILY TO SERVE AS VLADIMIR'S PRIMARY MOTIVATION!  
> Relax, she has a personality and her own arc and motivations but she does serve as motivation for Vladimir and to question his loyalty to LeBlanc. Carmilla existing doesn't make Vladimir any less of a dick towards other characters but he's nice to her.  
> Carmilla is, yes, supposed to be descended from Noxus's old royal family, but it kind of matters in the same way being part of the Russian royal family matters: it doesn't. She primarily is just part of the Noxian army and is friends with Darius because I don't know I figured she's like Fiora, got more important shit to do besides frolic around in pretty dresses (though if you can't tell she will if she damn well wants to).


	3. THe Mad Prophet

Taliyah felt fuzzy as she woke, not sure where she was, but aware that she was no longer in the Shuriman capital.  There was a slight chill and it smelled damp, but there was no doubt that she was still in the desert, somewhere along an outcropping of rocks close enough to a water source that the air could even be damp.  As her vision cleared, she saw that there was a crackling fire in front of her with a cauldron overtop.  Sitting atop the cauldron, turning slowly on a spit, was a desert hare.  Taliyah sat up so she could get a good look at the person turning the spit.

“Good, you’re up,” a voice on the other side of the fire said, “because this is done.”

There was a shift on the cave floor and a young man, around Taliyah’s age, stepped around the fire, orange light illuminating the lower half of his face.  The man lifted the spit and stabbed one end into the ground sand, where it held upright.  The man sat beside Taliyah and shifted a bag towards her.  The light revealed a bit more of him, freckled skin, a button-like nose, almond-shaped eyes the color of straw, and thick black hair that curled upwards at the ends.  The skin about his cracked lips was scabbed over, as if thread had been recently taken from them.  He had a woven scarf tied around his neck, though most of his clothes were black.  Taliyah’s gaze wandered, looking for markers of a tribe.  The scarf was from her own, but she didn’t recognize the wearer.  Despite the dark, she noticed a pile of blue and violet silk folded carelessly behind the boy, and glanced back at him.  Anyone smart in Shurima knew what a young man with stitched lips and fine clothes meant, and they’d learned to avoid the man.

“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “I didn’t drag you out of that city in a magic storm because I wanted to kill you or sacrifice you to the Void or whatever you weavers seem to think I do”

He turned to the cauldron and sat there for a few seconds, then looked back.

“Have you ever eaten ashe?”

“What?” Taliyah took the bag, realizing it was hers.

“It’s soup,” the man clarified, “and I’ll take that as a no.  Do you have a bowl?  If not I think I have an extra in my bag.”

The boy gestured to a leather bag leaning beside the pile of silk.  Taliyah opened her bag and dug around inside for her bowl, and shot a glance to the cave entrance as her fingers brushed smooth wood.

“Why did you drag me out of the city?” she asked flatly as she pulled out her bowl and handed it to the boy. The boy looked to the cave entrance, then looked back to the cauldron and took the bowl.

“The city isn’t safe,” he replied simply, with no note or tone to his voice, as he filled the bowl and a second with a thick, tan-coloured liquid. “Not the people. Not Azir. Not the magus conjuring the storm.”

“My family might be there,” Taliyah shouted, rising to her haunches. The boy simply nodded and sat down.

“So might mine,” he said. “But cities crumble.  Everything ends, even the Ascended.  Their immortality is just as finite as mine or yours.”

“Some believe their gods,” Taliyah scoffed, giving him a pointed look.

“You want a god?” the boy looked to her, and pointed out the cave entrance to the night sky.  “The Star Forger, Aurelion Sol, is a god worshipped on Mount Targon and by the Vastayan scavengers of the Sai Khaleek.  Even denizens of the Void fear him.   _ He _ is immortal, undying. Even Rek’Sai has to die at some point.”

“I never said I thought they were gods.”

“Then don’t say  _ some _ like you do,” the boy retorted, looking to the fire.

The cave fell silent. Taliyah looked to the cave entrance and sat back down, digging into the soup.  It was a familiar taste, the kind of food that warmed you to your core.  There was a slight spice to it, not a familiar piece of the food Taliyah’s tribe made.  Merchants had the coin for spices, weavers did not.  She didn’t really care though, the soup was warm and flavorful, the boy knew how to cook, though to be fair most Shurimans did.

Setting her bowl aside, she shot a glance to the boy, just as he looked to her.

“What’s your name, Earth Weaver?”

Taliyah narrowed her eyes, scrutinizing him.

“Taliyah. What’s yours?”

“You don’t know my name?” he laughed.

“My people call you a mad prophet.”

He laughed again.

“Malzahar. And mad is a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“I think it’s fitting for a man who betrayed his people to chaos,” she snarked.

Malzahar tensed up, his gaze dropping as he raised his hand to chew on the well-chewed thumbnail. The cave fell silent again save the crackling of the fire. Taliyah looked to the cave entrance, wondering why she was brought out here, and how she could get back to the city. Her mind turned to her family.  She missed them all dearly, and regretted ever leaving home.  She knew deep down it was to protect them, but part of her wondered if she had really done the right thing.  Now she had no idea where they were, she simply assumed they were in the city because many tribes had been there.

“How old are you Taliyah?” Malzahar asked quietly, breaking her from her thoughts in a jump. Turning around she found the boy looking at her, his eyes guarded.

“I’m sixteen,” she replied simply, schooling her expression to a deadpan glare. Malhazar snorted mirthlessly.

“We’re the same age then.”

Taliyah’s schooled expression fell. He was? She wasn’t expecting that. She knew he was young, maybe a few years older than her. But the same age? She didn’t know how to respond to that; she didn’t know what to think about that.

“Not that that’s really matters,” he remarked as he stood. “Most tribes and clans consider you an adult as thirteen and fourteen. I’m sure that’s a great age to make rational adult decisions.”

“What are you talking about?” Taliyah asked, schooling her expression again as she rose to her feet. Malhazar shook his head and looked to her.

“Nothing. I, uh-” he sighed and dropped his gaze to the floor. “Look, I need your help.”

“My help?”

“Yeah. See this?” he asked, gesturing to the scabbed over wounds around his lips. “A parting gift from one of the cultists. I need to get out of the desert. Soon.”

“How soon?”

“Like very, very soon.”

“Why?” Taliyah asked, crossing her arms. “Why have you got to get out of the desert, really, really soon?”

Malhazar shook his head, then sighed. “I started getting visions again, shifting flashes of the coast mostly, something there trying to stop the void. The Cult of the Void doesn’t want that information getting out, so they tried to keep me quiet”

Taliyah furrowed her brow, “So, what does the coast have to do with the Void?”

“Ionia normally affected me like this,” Malzahar replied. “That’s why I rarely went there. But Shurima’s coast is a long way from Ionia. Somewhere on the ocean is another place with a lot of natural magic. Natural magic flushes out Void influence.  Shurima has almost no natural magic, and the Void’s always had a strong grip here.”

Malzahar sat down. “I mean, magic isn’t something humans here understand.  You know as well as I do that even if they accept it, they have no idea what to do with it.”

Taliyah sighed and nodded. Humans had that bad habit of finding harmful or dangerous ways to use and exploit everything they discovered. And a bad habit of hurting others if they were afraid or thought there was a threat. And here was the Mad Prophet, feeding her soup in a cave, saying there was a natural wellspring of magic that could flush away the taint of the Void. She shot him a questioning glance, wondering what he was thinking, what he was planning.

“So, what you’re saying is, you want my help to travel to the coast?”

“I’d say...protection is a better word,” the boy said with a shake of his head. Looking to her he gestured. “If you don’t trust me, I understand. I can find some way across the desert. And I don’t want to take you away from looking for your family.”

Taliyah looked around the cave, then back at Malzahar.  The scarf around his neck drew her thoughts to her family, the weave was so gentle and careful, little flecks of silver thread and silk blue as the desert sky had been woven in between the threads of lavender and lilac to create a pattern that shimmered when it caught the light.  Her mother’s work, no doubt, she had loved weaving cloth of bright colors like that, Taliyah’s beloved red coat had once been woven the same, but the gold threads, and even some of the deep crimson silk, had since been removed, taken out to buy food and water.  It no longer shimmered like it once had.  Taliyah wanted to go home, see her mother, watch her weave those shimmering patterns on a loom, but she looked at the boy in front of her and felt, deep down, that she had to do something.  The Great Weaver always wanted people to help those in need, and Malzahar was certainly in need, right?

She shot him another glance. She could help him to the coast, easily. And she was curious, what was he planning? What did it have to do with this wellspring? She wanted to trust that this was something to fight against the Void. But if it wasn’t...

Well, Malhazar wouldn’t have long after that for whatever evil he’s got plotted.

“I could just yell at you for guilting me into helping you,” Taliyah smirked. Malhazar’s head shot up, a bright smile on his face.

“You’ll help?”

Taliyah nodded. He jumped to his feet, leaping forwards to hug Taliyah.  She smiled, and inwardly, hoped she was making the right choice.

She had to be making the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first chapter with any major edits from my beta reader/co-author Lord Tomyh. Originally I brought him on for basic revision purposes but he's pretty good at editing and helping with fleshing out chapters, so we're working this all out together.  
> Thanks for reading!  
> -The Jashinist  
> PS: from Lord Tomyh:  
> Hi everyone, I'm Lord Tomyh. I hope you're all enjoying this piece, and continue to read and support The Jashinist here.  
> Thank you all for reading, and have a good one.


	4. Paylangi

It wasn’t like there was anywhere closer, it was Bilgewater or braving rough seas and Karthus’s magic to either get to Ionia or Noxus. Demacia was out of the question.  Having magic was motive for being murdered there, and Thresh was on the hit list of more than one of the pompous creeps as it stood.  He didn’t need more enemies.

Thresh pulled his hood over his head and adjusted his cloak so his bone hook and lantern weren’t visible.  Muttering a quick, simple glamour into his palm, he disguised his tattoos and ears.  People around here could recognize his kind in an instant with the right cues, and Thresh didn’t need to give them any.

Thresh scanned the deserted street, stepping around murdered gangers and the wharf rats devouring the “fresh” meat.  The things were at least the size of a small dog, and Thresh didn’t think bothering something that big and diseased was a good idea.  He could deal with small rats, not big ones.

Thresh gave a furtive glance over his shoulder, noting the ganger tailing him and picking up his pace, a tall, tanned paylangi with a mean look in his eyes.  Whether the man knew what he was despite the glamours and subtle disguises, or thought he was a good candidate for a robbery wasn’t important.  The man was out for coin no matter who Thresh was, and was big enough that he could probably get what he wanted without much of an issue.

Thresh needed a more crowded part of the docks, one where more people were around.  Not that anyone would do much, but the man would be less inclined to attack Thresh if he knew someone would notice.

A second man stepped around the corner in front of Thresh and he stopped about a foot from him.  The closest and safest escapes were the alley this new man had emerged from and one now past his follower.  Either way, these men knew Bilgewater better, and like boars, if there were two, more were bound to join.  If Thresh were feeling lucky, he’d dive into the water nearby, but the night had turned the waters black as pitch, and Thresh couldn’t see the current.  Navigating into this cove had been hard enough, but Thresh’s memory of the cove’s currents was still relatively fresh, and he knew not to swim in them unless he could see what was below the water.  He couldn’t.

“Pardon me,” Thresh muttered, trying to step around the second man halfheartedly.  The second man pulled out a cutlass and Thresh stepped back, almost too quickly.  Thresh was more accustomed to other monks and vastayan hunters than pirates, their reflexes were faster than these two, and Thresh had to slow himself to not give away his birthright.  His people were built to outrun creatures as fast as Kiilash, agile enough to outmaneuver Makara in the water, and balance through jungle canopies and camphor trees. Human paylangi from the Serpent Isles couldn’t hope to match that kind of agility and balance, and anyone worth talking to knew it.

Thresh looked up at the second man.  He too was paylangi, with a deep tan on his skin and clear scars all over his body.  These gangers were normally working men, probably accustomed to long days at the Slaughter Docks and nights in stinking brothels.  If they didn’t recognize Thresh’s kind on sight, they hadn’t been here long.

“This is fancy,” the second man lifted Thresh’s lifewater vial.  It certainly did look fancy; the vial was made from a fae crystal that made the water glow a deeper blue at the bottom.  But it was common as quartz trinkets like it came, just a hunk of blue fae crystal roughly carved into a bottle by someone without much carving skill, the valuable thing was the water inside, but that wasn’t what these men were interested in, they didn’t know the water gave life, healed wounds, or protected against undeath.  The crystal of the vial was all they thought they could sell, but in reality, Thresh doubted it would net them more than two silver coins.  Then again judging by these fools, that was still a fair amount of money for them to net on a tiny trinket.

“I’m sorry that’s not yours,” Thresh pulled the vial from the man’s hand, “nor is it valuable.”

The man looked Thresh up and down and smirked.  The first man pulled Thresh’s hood off and grabbed his hair, pulling his head back and baring his throat.  The second smirked and put a blade against Thresh’s neck.  The metal stung, and Thresh gritted his teeth, sunsteel.  Steel made with a miniscule amount of silver, and one of the banes of Thresh’s kind since the Ruination.  Thresh had all but forgotten its sting.

“Where do you get off havin’ skin?” the man asked, “Much less a beatin’ heart.”

“Get off me,” Thresh spat, gripping the man’s wrist and pulling it back.  He bared his teeth and let out a low growl.

“Ain’t you a stormy brat?” the second man teased, “Would ya play nice if I threatened to put you over my knee?”

Thresh gritted his teeth and for a moment, considered using magic, but any magic would just result in two pissed off pirates looking to whip him raw.  He wasn’t about to kill them, it’d ruin the fun.  Thunder rumbled, almost as if agreeing with Thresh’s irritation, but the only thing the sky offered was a downpour, and the knife was lifted from Thresh’s throat, his hair released.

“Come along now boy,” the second man gestured for Thresh to follow him.  Thresh growled under his breath and stood still, rooted in place.  There was a snickering and the first man grabbed Thresh’s arms and wrestled him to the ground.  Thresh screamed and thrashed, kicking the man and snapping his teeth.  He was smaller, so anything he did wasn’t much use.  The man sat on Thresh’s back, holding his arms with one hand and his hair with the other.  He was laughing loudly as if Thresh’s futile attempts at escaping were funny to him.

“Don’t think he wants to go,” he remarked.

“Then we’ll give him an alternative,” the second man strode up and untied a coil of rope bound to his belt.  He bound Thresh’s arms tightly and the first man stood and backed away.  Thresh was pulled to his feet and dragged to the water’s edge.

“You like your beating heart Mistling, I can tell,” he said softly, “so I’ll give you a few seconds to think about which you like more, your freedom, or that beating heart.”

The man shoved Thresh into the black.  The water hit with a shocking blast of icy cold, and Thresh gasped.  Foul tasting black water rushed into his mouth.  Thresh struggled against the ropes binding his arms behind his back and his lungs began to burn for air.  He kicked for the surface but the man’s hand shoved him back down and held him there, struggling for air in the freezing water, inches from the surface.  After a few seconds of holding him, the man gripped Thresh’s collar and lugged him out of the water and onto the street.  Thresh coughed, then vomited up the water he’d swallowed, gulping in the air as the taste of blood and filth coated his mouth.  Thresh gagged and vomited again.

“There,” the man crouched down and grinned at Thresh, “made your decision yet?”

“You’re a sick son of a bitch,” Thresh growled.

“Mmhm,” the man nodded, “that’s how I’m still alive.”

The first man pulled Thresh to his feet and they dragged him down the street.  Thresh stumbled, he felt sick and dizzy, definitely ready to puke.  He swallowed the bile rising in his throat as he was tossed at a pair of feet.

“You’re not much good at staying dead.”

Thresh’s blood ran cold, and the voice, a firm, angry voice Thresh knew all too well, added on an extra few words.

“Were you, Warden?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These rapidfire updates are in large part because I'm churning through these chapters really quickly. This will probably slow down as finals week kicks in.  
> Thanks for reading, be sure to comment, enjoy!


	5. The Kindred Man

Vladimir pulled his lips into a snarl when he noticed Swain waiting for him in the Hall, and was ever further displeased to see the skeletal, trembling boy Swain held by the arm.  From the boy’s translucent skin and thin face, he assumed it was some street rat or slave.  Had the boy been less gangly and disproportionate, he would’ve made an effeminately handsome young man, bearing startling cobalt blue eyes, girlish features, and long blonde hair so pale it was almost white.

“What is that?” Vladimir gestured to the boy.

“A Kindred Man,” Swain replied, tightening his grip on the boy’s arm and drawing a pig-like squeal from him, “he’s that wraith you need to speak with.  His name is Karthus.  You report it to me, not the Rose.  Nox happily did the same.”

Swain tossed the boy forwards.  He stumbled and barely caught himself, looking up at Vladimir in abject horror.  Vladimir clicked his teeth at the shuddering boy and grabbed him by the hair, dragging him through the halls and ignoring his pleas to be released, along with the Noxian soldiers glaring at the boy’s treatment.  Those of the lower class would easily recognize one of their beloved Kindred Men, and those of the slums would likely recognize the boy, most of that ilk knew each other in some way, after all.  Vladimir stormed into a secluded room and threw the boy against the wall, slamming the door shut behind him.  The boy sank to the floor, gripping his bony hands together to keep them from shaking too violently.  It wasn’t working but the boy looked almost furious with himself for being afraid.  He was muttering words in a language Vladimir didn’t know, and didn’t care to know.  If he were to guess, it was a prayer, but for what Vladimir didn’t much know or care.

He looked about thirteen, a wear to him and his torn and ripped apart robes indicating that he’d been heavily interrogated by the Faceless and Nox already.  He wasn’t much good for returning to the halls of Kindred, and he looked too young to sell once he had outlived his use.  Swain’s grip on him had left a large red mark on his arm that would no doubt turn into bruise, not that he didn’t already have quite a few of those.  Swain hadn’t seemed happy about delivering the boy, nor very happy about dealing with him.  Vladimir wasn’t surprised, this boy was a trembling slum rat, without an honorable use to him and his place as one of the Kindred Men couldn’t convince Vladimir otherwise.  More than likely he’d joined their ranks to steal money for whatever starving family he had.  He looked too weak for much else.

“Talk,” Vladimir barked, making the boy jump, “and don’t lie.”

Vladimir flicked his fingers, using the blood in the boy’s system to make the boy jolt and lock up in a painful position, drawing a wail from the creature.  It almost made Vladimir push the contortion further, but he needed to get a point across, the torture could come later.

“I’ll know.”

“Please,” the boy begged, “I-I already told them everything I know.  Don’t hurt me, please.”

Vladimir sneered.  Whatever fight had been in him before this, it had been shattered, Vladimir could probably thank Nox for that.  Nevertheless, he had to continue.

“Apparently, they think otherwise.  So, we’ll cut a deal, tell me everything you told them, and if I think you know more than you’re letting on...”

Vladimir flicked his hand and the boy was flung to his feet.  His back arched, his head was bent backwards so far it nearly touched the floor, his knees buckling to compensate, and his arms twisting until the right one let out a nauseating pop.  The boy let out an earsplitting shriek of agony.  It was, after all, his blood twisting his body into these unnatural positions.  Vladimir released the boy and he collapsed in a heap.

“It’s Karthus right?” Vladimir stepped forwards, “On your feet boy.  Answer loudly.”

“Yes sir,” the boy scrambled to his feet and nodded, “it is Karthus.”

“How old are you?” Vladimir asked, noting that Karthus’s right arm was hanging, disjointed, at his side, “And where do you hail from?”

“Twenty-seven,” Karthus replied, “I’m from the slums outside the Bastion; I grew up in an almshouse with my father and sisters.”

“What of them?”

“My sisters are dead sir, the Kindred Men took me in while my father still lived, but I can assume he’s died by now.”

“Mm,” Vladimir grabbed Karthus by the chin, “you’d be in a brothel if it weren’t for those Kindred Men, but I supposed that’s probably a better life than struggling to subsist off of rainwater and vermin, isn’t it?”

For a moment, Karthus looked a mixture of horrified and nauseated by the suggestion.  Vladimir released him and popped his arm back into its socket, making the boy yelp.

“What do you know about the Shadow Isles?” he asked, circling Karthus, “You’ve been there yourself correct?  And you know the wraiths there.”

“I was only there for two years,” Karthus argued, “and even then, the only natives I spoke to were two monks.  The other natives couldn’t remember who they were.”

“The monks will do,” Vladimir nodded, running a hand through Karthus’s long hair.  It was surprisingly soft for a slimy urchin.  From the way Karthus tensed, he didn’t like the gesture.

“They-they had this creed with giving and taking life, ‘nothing goes against the natural order’, and they saw the ocean and their Isles as alive.  I was told the place was once filled with life, the water there healed the sick and injured, and there was magic imbedded deep into the soil.  There isn’t much made of stone there, mostly wood save for a large monastery on the central island.  And most of the villages lie on the shorelines.”

“Primitive,” Vladimir scoffed, “but understandable.  The place sounds like Ionia, with the curse lifted we could probably-”

“No!” Karthus raised his voice, cutting Vladimir off.  Vladimir glared at the boy, who stumbled over himself before continuing.

“If, by some miracle, the curse is lifted, and the Shadow Isles return to their former state, a Noxian invasion wouldn’t have any benefit.”

Vladimir stepped forwards and caught Karthus by the throat and lifted him off the ground.

“If I didn’t know any better,” Vladimir grinned, “I’d say you hold more love for these Isles and their primitive people than your own homeland.”

Karthus gasped, kicking at the air, his hands clawing at Vladimir’s fingers in a futile attempt to wrench him off.

“Not that I’m surprised,” Vladimir shrugged and held Karthus against the wall, “it must be nice for some primitive creatures to see you as worth something, meant for something honorable, instead of what you actually are.”

Vladimir dropped Karthus.

“The monks,” he said firmly, “what about them?”

“Thresh and Yorick,” Karthus gasped for air, “I don’t know how old Yorick is but Thresh is seventeen or eighteen.”

Vladimir raised an eyebrow.  Seventeen was awfully young to be a fully-fledged monk, and eighteen wasn’t much better.  Seeming to read this confusion, Karthus stammered out a further explanation.

“Th-they were from different parts of the order.  Thresh guarded a vault, I don’t know what was in it but the way he acted...I-I think it was dark magic.  He-he seemed...bitter about something.  Yorick told me his given name but when I tried to use it he nearly killed me.  I think he had something to do with the curse on the Isles.  But no matter how well I got along with him, he never told me.”

“No one else on the Isles knew?” Vladimir guessed.

“No, people knew,” Karthus shook his head, “Yorick knew.  He said it was Thresh’s secret to tell.”

“Hm,” Vladimir frowned.  The way Karthus spoke, that sounded sincere, but the way he was trembling, looking around in confusion, something was wrong.  “Where is he now?”

Karthus looked at Vladimir, horrorstruck.

“I have no idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lord Tomyh has informed me that he is highly suspicious of Vladimir and that this made it worse.  
> I'm glad.


	6. A Nest of Vipers

Returning to Bel’Zhun made Taliyah nervous.  There were far more Noxian soldiers walking around than when she’d last been there.  The stall gossip spoke of a powerful general leading a legion through on the way to the mainland.  She doubted any of them would recognize her, this legion was not the one she’d been dragged into, but the presence of an entire Noxian legion made her nervous, nevertheless.  That was a lot of soldiers, a lot of plunderers, and only one man keeping them all under control.

Malzahar shifted the scarf around his neck and scanned the stalls, his straw-colored eyes flicking about the bright woven cloths and beaded jewelry displays, as if ascertaining the value of each item.  Taliyah knew the look, a merchant’s gaze.  Most Icathians had taken up the profession in their small tribes, they were fairly good at it, peaceful or not they were a clever and shrewd people.  In the sun, she could see little traces of Malzahar’s tribe, blue fae crystal, usually found in Ionia, hung from his ears, brass pins from Targon Solari smiths pulled back part of his hair, a Demacian sunsteel knife was holstered at his side.  These were products from all over Runeterra, mere trinkets to most, but a seasoned eye would recognize his people in an instant.  Sel’Koz, Eyes of the Forger, a Northern Merchant tribe that Taliyah’s people traded with when the rains took them north.  Taliyah remembered a particularly pretty rock in her pack, a green jade piece, carved like a spiral, that she’d gotten from one of them.

Sel’Koz were a peaceful people, were being the operative word.  They weren’t really around much anymore, and from the tarnish on the brass pins, Malzahar’s trinkets were old.

“It just came to me,” Malzahar looked at Taliyah with a furrowed brow, breaking her off from her train of thought, “I’m not sure I can afford passage across the channel.  At least, not unless I sold some things, and the stalls are all full.”

“I don’t have much,” Taliyah shrugged, gesturing to the spaces where gold thread had previously been woven through her coat, “have any ideas?”

“We could beg,” Malzahar shrugged, “or steal.  I don’t want to stick around here any longer than I need to, and you have a family to get back to.”

Taliyah nodded and looked about the market stalls, watching the people pass and trying to discern someone who would be willing to help, or if that failed, willing to take work from a pair of kids.  She had no intention of stealing someone’s hard-earned coin so she could send this man off.  As her eyes flicked about the merchants, nomads, and foreigners among the throngs of people, she caught sight of someone out of place.

A young woman amid the crowd, clad the uniform of the Noxian Silver Guard.  Made from indigo wool lined with silver to differentiate them from the black and red of the common soldiers, Taliyah had only seen the elite soldiers in Noxus Prime.  The guard had brass-colored skin and vibrant green eyes.  Taliyah didn’t recognize any markers of a Shuriman tribe about her, but these were not the traits of a Noxian.  The woman locked eyes with Taliyah, and turned to another Noxian, this one in the empire’s usual black and red armor.

“Oh no,” Taliyah whispered.

“You know, when I hear ‘oh no’ it usually means something bad is about to happen,” Malzahar remarked.

“A Noxian just saw me,” Taliyah replied.

“Bad, right,” Malzahar nodded.

“Hey!” a voice shouted, and a tall, bulky soldier started towards them.  Taliyah turned to run but realized that her coat was pinned to the ground.  The woman, as Taliyah turned to run, had fired an arrow at one of the sleeves.  Taliyah should’ve expected it to happen, the woman would’ve know she’d run.  Malzahar hurried to help her pull it free, but the soldier got there first.  A firm grip on the scruff of Taliyah’s neck, the soldier freed the arrow and tossed it aside.  Taliyah assumed Malzahar would take this moment to run, but whether he would or not was irrelevant, the soldier had a hold on him too.

“Those clothes are Icathian,” the woman said as she approached, “and those, a weaver tribe.”

“You fail to make a point,” the soldier remarked.  He looked gruff, disgruntled.  Taliyah didn’t know many regular soldiers who thought much of the Silver Guard.  Most were trained in guerilla tactics, standing somewhere between war mason and assassin, but this seemed different.  It seemed like a personal grudge between them.

“Honey,” the woman scoffed, as if unimpressed by the man’s attitude, “drop the scolding act it doesn’t work on me.”

“It’s not an act,” the soldier grunted, making the woman raise her eyebrows.

“Mmhm, sure.  The weaver’s a former apprentice of ours, I take it Captian Hartford has an explanation as to why she isn’t dead like he claimed.  I’ll leave that to you General.”

“And the boy?” the man snorted angrily.

“Don’t recognize him, but Icathian clothing always indicates Icathian blood.  Icathian merchant clothing, and a weaver’s scarf,” the woman lifted Malzahar’s scarf, “that implies wealth, status, or would be if his tribe still existed.”

“So he’s valuable.”

“No,” the woman released the scarf, “please read the briefings on desert tribes before you trounce into the desert like a Demacian, I know you’re not fond of them.  Icathians are not valued, they’re ostracized.  On the bright side, he should have magic, luck be willing.”

“Are you going to stall or actually check?” the man snapped.

“And you retained about a fifth of that lecture,” the woman sighed.  She placed her index finger on Malzahar’s forehead, then drew away a wispy gold thread.  The thread flashed blue, then violet, and the woman tossed it in the air and it dissipated.

“As I said, innate magic,” she confirmed with a smirk, “blue indicates foresight, violet indicates power.”

“So a powerful seer,” the soldier scoffed, “any use?”

“Some,” the woman nodded, “he’s got enough power to implant his visions in others, but beyond that, I’m not sure.”  The woman paused and glanced at Malzahar, who was glaring daggers into the woman, “sweetie, I’ve seen way worse than my guts falling out, but it’s a good attempt.”

Taliyah glanced at Malzahar, then at the soldier.

“What?” she snapped, trying to sound stronger than she actually was, “Are you just going to take us back to Noxus?  I won’t fight for liars.”

“You won’t be Hartford’s apprentice anymore,” the woman shrugged, “I’ll take it upon myself find a better assignment, a better mage, one that grasps the nuances of elemental magic like yours.”

“You mean a Silver Guard,” the soldier guessed, almost sounding irritated by the words.

“Don’t I always?  Darin isn’t done his apprenticeship, so I might see if someone of House Du Couteau is available.”

“And the seer?”

“The Faceless employs a Duskspeaker, do they not?”

“Nox?  You want to leave a child in Nox’s hands?”

“You make a fair point,” the woman turned to the docks, “We leave port soon, we’ll decide when we reach the Bastion.”

“I’m not going,” Taliyah snapped.

“I’m afraid this isn’t your choice,” the woman smirked, “you agreed to this apprenticeship, and you don’t get to drop out now that your opinion has shifted.”

The woman whistled to the other soldiers standing around and gestured to Taliyah and Malzahar.

“I need these two bound and on the ship in ten,” she shouted, “we’re expected in Rokrund in seven days, but I’d rather wait on familiar soil, so we sail today.”

“We’re not at quota,” one soldier, a teenage boy of perhaps fifteen, argued.

“We have ten inside, eleven, twelve,” the woman nodded to Malzahar and Taliyah, “fuck Swain and his quotas.”

The boy stammered in shock, as if such blunt claims were unheard of.  From the reaction, Swain was in a position of power, but the Silver Guard was a nest of desert vipers, they didn’t fear yet another snake in their midst.

“General Darkwill-” the boy began, trying to argue against the woman’s blunt words, but he went dead silent when the woman’s gaze snapped back towards him.

“Do we have a problem soldier?” she asked.

The boy suppressed a shudder, and shook his head.

“No, not at all.”

The woman gave a short nod.

“We sail in ten, tell the kids.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Taliyah’s hands were bound and she was led to the docks, Malzahar at her side.  Taliyah took a deep breath and glanced at Malzahar.

“We’re out of the desert,” he reminded her.

“We’re going to Noxus Prime,” Taliyah hissed, “half the city is thieves and plunderers.”

Malzahar didn’t reply, but cast a glance back at the woman.

“I’m more worried about the viper they employ.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The concept of the Silver Guard is taken directly from the concept of the Praetorian Guard of Rome. Riot didn't quite detail too much how the armies work in Noxus or Demacia, but I figure there's probably something similar to the Dauntless Vanguard in Noxus.
> 
> And yes I absolutely based their uniforms off of Talon's Classic Skin.


	7. Lucian

Thresh held back his worst swears and trained his eyes on the grimy cobblestones.  The Demacian was standing in front of him, appraising him as if he were a fresh-caught piece of game.  He was a tall man, stern-looking, but his features once sported more smiles than scowls.  Thresh could see the faint traces of smile lines around his lips.

The man grabbed Thresh’s jaw and lifted it so he could get a better look at him.  A jolt of pain ran through his jaw and Thresh felt his carefully placed glamour fade away.  The man rubbed his thumb along the dark lines of Thresh’s tattoos.

“Like tree bark,” he muttered to himself, then shifted aside Thresh’s stormcloak to note the tattoos on his shoulders, “to a layman you’d look like another Serpent Islander, but no one in Bilgewater is a layman, hence the glamour,” the Demacian narrowed his eyes, “you’re younger than I thought.”

“I’m seventeen, you jackass,” Thresh snarled.  The Demacian clicked his teeth and let go of Thresh’s chin.  He took two gold coins from one pocket and tossed them to the men nearby.  Thresh watched them walk off and scowled.

“I don’t make my living killing children,” the Demacian remarked.

“I somehow doubt you actually care,” Thresh retorted, “nor did your wife, considering she knew how young I was.”

The man’s expression of disdain flicked into fury.  He raised one hand and struck Thresh with a resounding crack.  Thresh’s head jerked to the side and he nearly lost his balance.  Thresh turned slowly back towards the man, glaring and trying to act like the strike wasn’t sending a shock of pain through his cheek, like it wasn’t going to leave an ugly bruise.

“Don’t _touch_ me,” he snarled.  The man bared his teeth and pulled Thresh up by his collar.  His eyes were two pinpricks of black, the only emotion burning in them was fury, no sadness, no grief, and no love.  Thresh gritted his teeth and fought the urge to say something rude.

But the best laid plans never do turn out, do they?

“You know something funny?” Thresh grinned, giving in to his compulsion to be cruel, “You would never save your wife the way you’ve changed.  I couldn’t even touch you before, too much love, too much light.  Now?  You’d be easy prey, too easy.  Not worth my time, or energy.  Shame, the only way you’d be reunited with Senna is...inside the Lantern.  It won’t let her out just because I’m dead.”

The Demacian’s face contorted more and he rammed Thresh into a nearby wall.  Thresh smirked and continued gleefully, reciting a rhyme his mother once told him about the Lantern.

“ _Be wary who you lay to sleep,  
_ _Whose soul the Lantern dares to keep,  
_ _For if you die before they wake,  
_ _Your soul the Lantern’s bound to take._ ”

The Demacian’s tightened his grip on Thresh’s collar.  It was almost as if he didn’t want to believe Thresh, but also knew that no other living thing knew anything about the Lantern.  He had to decide if Thresh was lying or not, the fate of his wife depended on Thresh’s honesty.

Shame Thresh wasn’t much one for lying.

After a moment, the man lowered Thresh to the ground, his teeth still pulled into a snarl.  Apparently, whether he believed Thresh or not, the man didn’t want to risk being wrong.  Thresh wasn’t out of the woods yet.  The man was still standing clear in the way of any possible escape, and his pistols had enough range to make up for slower reflexes.

The man leaned forwards, “You’re full of shit.”

“But you don’t want to risk being wrong about that,” Thresh guessed, “so how will you prove your theory?”

The man looked a little too smug for Thresh’s comfort.

“How strong’s your will?” he asked.

“I’d say pretty strong,” Thresh narrowed his eyes, “why?”

“Because I know someone who can break the toughest soldiers,” the man replied, “and he owes me a favor.”

Thresh flinched, but couldn’t see any way to escape the situation he was in.  He couldn’t talk around it.  He was old enough that most people classified him as an adult, and those that didn’t wouldn’t have any problem beating him.  Nineteen was young enough that some considered him a child, but old enough that even those bleeding hearts thought he deserved being punished for any crime, real or imagined, as long as he wasn’t killed in the process.  The man grabbed Thresh by his hair and pulled him up close.

“For the record,” he added, “whether you’re lying or not, you damn well deserve to rot in that godforsaken lantern, to suffer like the poor souls you’ve trapped in it.”

Thresh replied with bared teeth and a low growl.  The man pulled Thresh along like a disobedient child and tossed him in the brig of a ship.  The door swung shut and left Thresh in the dark, only a dim light drifted from the Lantern.  Thresh took a deep breath and wriggled out of his bindings so he could have a good look around.  The brig was small, dark, filled to Thresh’s ankles in filthy water, and empty save for Thresh and a dying man, coughing his lungs out.  Thresh glanced to the man for a moment.  He was too sick to even remotely process that Thresh was from the Shadow Isles.

Thresh strode over and lifted the man’s chin.  He was a native of the Serpent Isles, covered in blistering pockmarks.  If he’d been treated sooner, he would’ve had a chance to survive, but he wasn’t going to last the night at this point.  The most anyone could do now was make him as comfortable as possible.

Classic Bilgewater Hospitality.

The man cracked open his eyes and his gaze flickered.  There was a faint whisper, a plea for help, and Thresh felt his heart sink.

“I can’t help you,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, “you’re dying.  What can I do?”

The man reached with a shaking hand around to his belt and withdrew a curved knife.  Thresh shook his head quickly and pushed the knife away.

“I can’t,” he repeated, but the man held the knife forwards urgently.  His other hand rose to rest on Thresh’s cheek, his thumb gently tracing back and forth.  His eyes were tired and sad, like he had long since given up hope, they flickered with a recognition, a love.  He didn’t see a stranger in Thresh’s face.  Thresh stared at the blade before hesitantly taking it from the man.  The man let out another harsh cough and seemed to smile, briefly, a whispered thank you on his lips for an act Thresh wasn’t even sure he could carry out.

But why?

Thresh had killed countless times before, what made one sick man so different?  Thresh closed his hands around the hilt and looked up at the man, brought so low by some mainland disease, so willing to end his suffering that he’d happily take his own life if he possessed the strength.

That was what was so different, so off.  None of Thresh’s victims wanted to die before, this one, this one did.

Thresh took a deep breath and drove the knife into the man’s stomach, biting back a sob as he did.  The man gave a faint smile and his shuddering hand rested on Thresh’s shoulder.

“It’s over,” he whispered, speaking clearly for the first time, “don’t cry for me _mahuri_.  I’ve done nothing to warrant your grief.”

Thresh looked up at the man, and something in his heart began to ache.  There was nothing painful or cruel in this death, he didn’t even think the man felt the knife go in, but that grateful look on his face, the kindness to his voice, these were the things Thresh had been taught since childhood were signs that what you were doing was right.  This didn’t feel right, it felt wrong.  There was nothing in this death.  It was merciful; Thresh didn’t do mercy.

The man’s eyes flickered once more and the light in them faded.  Thresh closed them and muttered an old prayer of his people before standing and backing away.  He wiped tears from his face with one sleeve, took a shuddering breath, and dropped the knife in the ankle-deep water.

He was crying, but not for the man.  The man was right, nothing he had done had warranted Thresh’s grief, but Thresh was standing in a ship’s brig, covered in blood and knowing full well he was only going to be tortured when he got where he was being taken.  Alive or not, something in Thresh knew full-well he was never going to see his home again.

For the first time in a long time, Thresh was scared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHO'S READY FOR THRESH'S PAIN?  
> It's only getting worse from here kids.


	8. The Answer

Karthus didn’t know where the wraith was.  He wasn’t lying, Vladimir wasn’t sure he would’ve thought of lying.  Nox broke him long before Vladimir had even laid a hand on him. He was hiding something though, something relating to this child.  It had to do with the boy’s location, where he’d go, but if the Faceless’s sadistic torturer couldn’t beat it out of him, what chance did Vladimir have?

To be fair, they probably weren’t asking the right questions.  There were hundreds, Vladimir knew nothing about the Isles, or the order this child belonged to.  He needed a good starting place, a something, a someone. He needed a name.

“Let’s try it this way,” Vladimir cracked his neck, “among the living, does the monk know anyone?  Intimately, friend or foe.”

Karthus hesitated and Vladimir knew he’d hit the mark.  The only thing Karthus had any idea about was people the boy would know that didn’t live on the Isles, and that was what he was hiding from the Rose.

“Well?” Vladimir raised his eyebrows and lifted his hand slightly, a reminder of what Karthus faced if he didn’t answer the questions.

“I don’t know any names,” Karthus insisted.  Vladimir bared his teeth.  **_That_ ** was a bold-faced lie.  Vladimir grabbed Karthus by one arm.  Karthus let out a startled yelp and tried to pull his arm from Vladimir’s grip.  Vladimir held his arm fast and leaned in close.

“Lie again, and I’ll make sure you scream those names to Nox,” he snarled, “now, who does the boy know?”

Karthus cast a quick glance at the door and swallowed.

“Illaoi,” he said softly, “the high priestess of the Mother Serpent.  She hunts all wraiths on the Isles but she and Thresh have history. That is, their people have history.”

“Bilgewater?” Vladimir guessed.  Karthus nodded.

“There’s also a Demacian, Lucian,” he added, “he’s been hunting Thresh for years now.  Something about a soul he took.”

Vladimir released Karthus and let out a slow sigh.  Demacians weren’t known for having much interest in ghostly creatures.

“You expect me to believe that?” he asked.

“Look I saw him once!” Karthus insisted, “Thresh doesn’t like him, so I doubt he’d go to him.”

Vladimir looked back at the door, then turned away from Karthus, “Nox will confirm your claim.  Thank you.”

“I’m not lying!” Karthus reached forwards to grab Vladimir’s sleeve.  Vladimir grabbed Karthus by his throat.

“You’d better hope not,” he snarled.  He tossed Karthus to the ground, and walked out, locking the door behind him.  He started down the hall towards Swain’s office, and almost screamed in anger as he noticed Darin Cromwell struggling to keep pace with him.

Darin Cromwell was a vastaya of the Ophelis tribe, clever and charming horned vastaya from Noxus’s Northern Steppes.  He was like Carmilla in many ways, but far more irritating. He was also Swain’s apprentice, a distinctly skilled battle mage worthy of at least a little respect.  That didn’t mean that Vladimir, by any stretch, had to like him. Darin was clever, sure, no doubt charming, and if Darkwill’s son had taken a fancy to him he was certainly handsome, though that was dubious considering Keiran’s standards for men ranged from actually handsome men to Draven, that said, these were not expected traits of a Noxian soldier.  They were expected to be natural to the battlefield first. Darin fought like he hunted, using geography to hide and using his natural agility and cunning to catch opponents off-guard. Vladimir thought it was a foolish and cowardly endeavor, and he wasn’t the only one. Not many higher-ranking officers much liked Darin either. The only ones who liked him were the Silver Guard, the Faceless’s personal squadron, supposedly among the most elite soldiers in Noxus, apart from the Trifarian Legion itself.  Vladimir had his doubts, however, considering Du Couteau’s ward Talon was part of the Guard.

“What have you been doing?” Darin asked, glancing back towards the room with his single green eye, the other sat useless under a leather eyepatch, “Heard from some of the guards you had a leech on you.  Where’d he go?”

Vladimir resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  “Leech”, what Ophelis called Kindred Men. They had a low opinion of those who profited off of the sick, the dying, and their grieving families.  As much as Vladimir didn’t like how dependent the slums were on Kindred Men, he appreciated the magnitude of their ranks and the hand they often had at quarantining rashes of plague that broke out in Noxus’s overcrowded slums.

“He’s still in there,” he replied, “I was going to report what I learned to Swain.”

“I can add interrogating a priest to your list of crimes,” Darin muttered twirling a strand of golden hair, “what did Swain want?  Oh pardon, let me rephrase that: What did the Black Rose want?”

“Nothing you need to know about,” Vladimir stopped at Swain’s office, “go stick your head in a dragon’s mouth.”

Darin raised his eyebrows and opened the door to Swain’s study.  “I have errands to run,” he grinned, “I think that’d be detrimental.”  Darin stepped in and gave a low bow, “Sorry I’m late General.”

“Well?” Swain barely looked up from his desk as Darin walked in, “Come in Vladimir, I’ll speak with you presently about the Kindred Man, but Darin’s work takes precedence.  What of the convoy? Did they make it?”

“No, unfortunately,” Darin replied, “none of the gates gave any report of the convoy, and the last checkpoint was in Ironwater, there’s been no word since.  I could send word to Alice and Darius, have them send their gathered apprentices up the mainland route and rendezvous with them in Vindor, that’s the Noxtorra they should’ve passed under next.”

Swain took a deep breath, considering the option, then nodded, “If there was trouble on the convoy, the thief will either be overcome by the blade, or the storms rolling in from Ionia will trap them until the end of the month.  Alice is by far the best equipped in the area to face off against a Darkin blade with her brother in the Freljord, and further, I believe we may have luck finding other...disturbances in Vindor. On another note: What of the Kindred Man?”

Vladimir glanced at Darin and Swain quickly added, “Whatever it is can be said in the presence of my apprentice.  He’s not an idiot.”

“Most of the time,” Darin granted with a shrug.

“Well,” Vladimir raised his eyebrows, “Karthus mentioned a boy, a native of the Isles, that he lost track of preceding his resurrection.  I have a feeling this child was resurrected, same as him, and might be heading for one of two living contacts that he named, though one contact I’m skeptical of.”

“Which is?” Swain looked up at Vladimir, his eyes bored into him like to small pinpricks, it was unnerving.

“A Demacian, Lucian, apparently has history with the boy.”

Swain tapped a nail on the desk and smirked.  Vladimir suppressed a shudder. He spoke in a clear dialect Vladimir didn’t recognize, but the remark, whatever it was, made Darin grin.

“I take it you want Nox to verify the claim?”

“I’d prefer not to take a slum rat’s word in this case,” Vladimir replied, “But I might venture to join Darin’s company in Vindor?  If the boy is on the mainland, he might be drawn to high concentrations of dark magic, like a Darkin Blade.”

“Why take interest in a child?” Darin asked.

“The Order of Dusk,” Swain guessed, “he’s a member?”

“Apparently.”

Swain looked skeptical but shrugged.

“Darin.”

Darin straightened up quickly.

“I’m having Talon and Vladimir accompany you to Vindor, and I’ll send word for Alice and Darius to meet you there.”

“Yes sir,” Darin nodded.

“I’ll have Nox extract the boy’s name while verifying the contacts during your preparations, you’ll do well to know his real name.”

“And if the contacts are reliable?” Vladimir asked.

“We’ll see.”

Vladimir nodded and started out, as he was walking down the hall, Darin came up alongside him.

“Swain speaks Vastaya,” he guessed, “I take it that was something about the boy?”

“It’s nothing you need to know about,” Darin snapped, “but yes, about Lucian.”

“Swain knows the name?”

“Perhaps he does, perhaps he does not.  Are you really so keen on knowing the answer to that?”

Vladimir gritted his teeth.

“Yes,” he snarled, “I am.”

Darin grinned wide, “You really are a thorn in Swain’s side, aren’t you?”

Vladimir opened his mouth to respond but shut it as Darin turned to leave, his tail flicking back and forth like a cat’s.

He really hated Vastaya.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Darin doesn't show up much but that mention to Keiran? Yeah that's important!
> 
> So is Nox, don't forget that Nox exists.


	9. The Cobra Among Vipers

Malzahar hadn’t said much since they boarded the ship, he stuck close to Taliyah and cast the General woman sidelong glances.  Taliyah had gathered that her name was Alice Darkwill. She looked like the merchants of Shurima. Her skin was smooth and warm, her features regal and beautiful.  However, her bow was almost certainly Ionian, there was an air to the wooden frame and bright crimson bowstring that felt so much like that nation, despite the fact all her clothes were Noxian.  She had an eye for good craftsmanship and functionality, like most good Noxian soldiers.

Alice turned to Malzahar and Taliyah then back to the man she was talking to, she seemed mildly irritated.  The man beside her did too, but less so. After a few minutes, she turned to the helmsman.

“Adjust course,” she ordered, “Just received word from Kieran that Swain wants us in Vindor.”

Taliyah frowned.  Why were they adjusting course that radically?  What was in Vindor that was so important? And most importantly, how did she figure that out so quickly?

“We won’t make it before the storms hit,” the man commented.

“Then we’ll dock in Ironwater and proceed on foot,” Alice shrugged, “but I’m not keen on disobeying Swain’s orders.”

“Never stopped you before,” the man muttered.

“This is different,” Alice cut in, “Darin is being sent to retrieve the Darkin blade we found from a thief.”

“Oh  _ fun _ ,” the man bared his teeth, “Darin  _ and _ a thief.  Not like the kid isn’t already a headache.”

“He’s eighteen, let him be young,” Alice glanced at Taliyah and Malzahar, “He’s still Swain’s apprentice, after all...think we should take these two?”

The man raised an eyebrow.  Alice walked over and crouched in front of them.

“I’m just thinking aloud,” she remarked, “but the girl doesn’t trust us, and that seer might try to pull something if I’m not around.  The other kids were talked into this, I can’t use smiles and persuasion like Hartford. Not on these two.”

The man rolled his eyes, “Then I have to look after them.”

“Darius, sweetie, I think you can handle a pair of kids.  And if you like we can pass them off to Talon the first chance we get.  Talon’s good with kids.”

Darius grunted, but didn’t reply, as if that claim was dubious at best.  Alice hopped to her feet and walked off to speak with other soldiers on deck.

Taliyah stood to look over the side of the ship, and barely glimpsed land on the horizon.  She looked back at Darius, then at Alice. Both were occupied, and only Malzahar seemed to be paying her any mind.  His face had gone pale, as if he knew exactly what Taliyah was thinking.

If she could just make it to shore, she’d be free to find her family; if she just swam to shore, she’d be fine.  Even if she couldn’t, drowning was a better alternative to being stuck in Noxus again. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Taliyah boosted herself onto the side of the ship and jumped overboard, barely hearing Malzahar scream before hitting the cold water below.

It took about two seconds for Taliyah to realize that this was a bad idea.  The current pulled her under and no matter how frantically she tried to get to the surface, she still couldn’t do much more than wildly thrash around.  She couldn’t swim; she’d been raised in the desert. Why did she think she’d be able to swim to shore? This was a mistake, and Taliyah decided, while struggling to get to the surface, that she did not actually want to drown.

An arm wrapped around Taliyah’s midsection and pulled her up to the surface.  Taliyah coughed and gasped for air, barely registering the harsh swears being spat in her ear.  She barely understood them, some harsh dialect of Ur-Noxian she had never learned. Taliyah held tightly to the arm around her and looked to see who was pulling her from the salty water.

It was Darius, his face twisted in anger as he scaled the side of the ship, still muttering in that dialect of Ur-Noxian.  Taliyah wasn’t really sure what to say, but apparently Darius did.

“Kid,” he began, then took a deep breath, “I admire having the gall to risk drowning, but jumping overboard when you can’t swim has got to be the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen someone do, and I have a pretty stupid-ass younger brother.”

“Articulate as always,” Alice praised as Darius climbed onto the deck.  Darius raised an eyebrow and let go of Taliyah. He grunted and Alice said something quickly in a language melodic, but nigh unrecognizable to Taliyah’s ear.

“That was uncalled for,” Darius commented.

“It’s true,” Alice shrugged.

“Just because it’s true doesn’t mean you should say it,” Darius muttered.

“Is Draven here?  Do you see anyone else on this ship who speaks Zhuyan?”

“I will remind you that your brother fucked him.”

“Look I make no claims about my brother’s sense of taste I simply state the facts.  He is.”

Darius paused, then sighed, “Okay, yes, that is a fair point.”

“I thought so too.”

Taliyah edged over towards Malzahar and ignored the glare he shot her.

“Why did you do that?” he hissed.  Taliyah didn’t reply, and Malzahar continued, “I get that you want to find your family, but you made me a promise that you’d help me get out of the desert.  Did you forget that?”

“I don’t want to go back to Noxus,” Taliyah finally answered, “I hate it there.  And I promised to help you get to the coast, not out of the desert completely.”

“Look, I’m not too peachy about Noxus either but I’m not about to drown to avoid ending up there,” Malzahar snapped, then calmed slightly, “you’re lucky he noticed.”

“I’m lucky you screamed,” Taliyah corrected.  Malzahar rolled his eyes and shrugged.

“Don’t do it again,” he warned.  Taliyah shuddered and pulled her coat tight around her, an action Darius must have noticed, because he snapped for someone to get dry clothes from below deck and strode over to wrap a dry, red cloth around Taliyah.

“You’re a stupid kid,” he remarked, repeating his earlier comment, “brave, stubborn, but stupid.”

“So you’ve said,” Taliyah raised her eyebrows, “any other stunning observations?”

“You’ve got a big mouth,” he replied, “and a bad attitude.”

“Good to know,” Taliyah nodded, “thank you for being so honest.”

“Yeah not all Noxians lie,” Darius jerked his head to Alice, “she’s a good example.”

“No I’m not,” Alice said loudly, “don’t listen to him kids, I disobey orders on the regular and then lie about it.”

“You don’t lie to trick innocent people,” Darius amended, “that’s what I meant.”

“Because I’m not stupid,” Alice retorted, “and that’s not my job.  The Silver Guard aren’t chosen because they’re good liars. They’re good fighters.”  Alice paused, then added, “Not that we’re not good liars.”

“They’re cowards,” Darius snarled.

“Just because the enemy doesn’t see my face doesn’t mean I don’t see theirs,” Alice hissed, “it doesn’t mean I don’t know who I’m killing.”  Alice stepped forwards, “You hesitated to kill Quiletta; Talon wouldn’t dream of hesitating if he were ordered to kill Katarina. That is why you were not chosen for the Silver Guard, you are Noxian, but you see, there’s might, vision, and guile.  You’ve got the might, a bit of the vision, but guile? Eh, not so much.”

Darius narrowed his eyes, “I suppose you’d kill your brother Keiran then.”

Alice faltered, then her gaze hardened, “Don’t play with me Darius; you should know better than that by now.”

Alice began to walk away, and as she did, a soldier flicked out a blade and aimed for the woman’s back.  Alice spun around on her toes and caught the soldier’s wrist long before it even neared her back. In a swift motion, she dropped a throwing axe from its place looped to her belt and struck off the soldier’s hand with a clean blow.  The soldier was carried below deck, screaming in agony. Alice returned the axe to its place and dropped the hand off the side of the ship. Taliyah suppressed a gag when she heard it hit the water.

This woman wasn’t a viper.

She was a cobra.


	10. The Blade in the Brig

The brig door opened, and a boy was thrown into the putrid water, followed by an ornate black scythe.  The door slammed shut and plunged the room into its usual darkness.  Thresh willed a little magic into his lantern, and it illuminated the room in pale green light.  The boy got to his feet and pulled the scythe from the muck, shaking it off.

“ _You were the one who made too much noise_ ,” a deep voice drifted from the scythe, “ _I was being perfectly quiet_.”

The boy glared at the scythe and his eyes drifted up to Thresh and the lantern lighting the room.  The boy was younger than Thresh, but not by much, dark-haired with pale gray eyes.  He had broad shoulders and a stocky build.  He was a mainlander, but his clothes were of Ionian make.  Thresh tilted his head to the side.  He hadn’t seen a mainlander in Ionian clothes before, it was off-putting, to say the least.  He never could get a good read on people like this.

“Stowaway?” Thresh guessed.

“Our aim was to journey to Ionia,” the boy nodded, “I hadn’t guessed the boat would go to Bilgewater.”

“Rotten luck,” Thresh smirked, “the Ionian ships will be stalled in Vindor for the next month, with the storm season approaching.  You’d need to leave port at Bloodcliffs to the north.”

The boy narrowed his eyes, and Thresh continued.

“Not that it matters now, you got caught.  Once they dock, you’ll be passed over to the Steward’s militia.”

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“Thresh, one of the Monks of Dusk,” Thresh grinned, “Guardian of the Vaults of Arcana, and an expert on dark magic, like your friend there.”  Thresh nodded to the scythe, “Do you have a name, my friend?”

“ _Rhaast_ ,” the scythe replied.

“It’s a pleasure Rhaast,” Thresh looked up at the boy, “and the wielder?”

“Shieda Kayn,” the boy held Rhaast aloft, defensively, as if he didn’t like the way Thresh spoke, “of the Order of Shadow.”

“When did the Order of Shadow get revived?” Thresh asked, “Oh wait, this is Ionia, sorry, I keep forgetting their stagnant concept of balance always yields discord.  The Order of Shadow being revived?  Nothing new.”

“You know our histories,” Kayn lowered Rhaast slowly.

“I know Ionia’s histories,” Thresh corrected, “you are not Ionian, you are a mainlander.”

“And you are not?”

“ _No_ ,” Rhaast snarled, “ _he is of the Shadow Isles, a place of life, once_.”

“How can you tell?” Kayn looked down at Rhaast.  Thresh sat up, ears perked to the comment.

“You’ve seen the court.”

“ _I’ve fought the court_!” Rhaast declared proudly, “ _Fierce creatures, damn hard to kill.  It’s the ears, your ears are damn obvious_.”

Thresh smirked and ran his fingertips along one ear.  They were a sign of the effect the Isles had on Thresh’s people.  Some families, older ones, had changed over years as the Isles’ natural magic seeped into their very blood.  Their ears grew long and pointed, their builds smaller and more agile.  Some grew wings, others, horns and antlers.  Thresh lowered his ears.  A marked feeling of homesickness overcame him, a thought of the warm, dense forests outside the monastery, from the dense ferns to the flowers that bloomed in shades from deep crimson to vibrant purple.  The afternoon storms soaked Thresh and the other acolytes as they ran for the cover of a camphor tree, climbing the branches so the mud and runoff didn’t try to wash them away.

The brig door opened again, and Thresh perked his ear as a sailor stood in the doorway.

“We’ll be in Vindor by morning,” he said firmly, “captain wants to see you both.”

Thresh walked over to the doorway and Kayn followed, holding tightly to Rhaast as if he were a lifeline.  The sailor led them to a cabin that was sparsely decorated, more for function than beauty.  It painted a fair picture of the inhabitant.  Tidy, serious, unsentimental, unwilling to show any twinge of weakness.  Thresh could find one though, strong-willed, sure, but reckless.  Even the most experienced sailors usually became sentimental about something, this captain had nothing of sentiment to their belongings.

The chair at the desk spun around, revealing a tall, red-haired paylangi cleaning a pistol, its twin sat on the desk.  The pistol didn’t really need to be clean, it was immaculate, but it was also being cleaned to hide the tactic, if either tried to run, they’d have a bullet in their back within seconds.  Thresh had seen this woman before, she had a quick draw and a good aim.  After all, not many people could hit a fleeing Makara in the water, and Thresh had seen this woman do just that.

“I’m not keen on stowaways,” she glared at Kayn, “and even less keen on Mistlings.”

Thresh raised his eyebrows in contempt and let his ears droop.  He knew which she was actually less keen on and it certainly wasn’t Mistlings.

“Okay maybe I like stowaways less,” the woman admitted, easily reading Thresh’s expression, “but Lucian wouldn’t have asked me to keep a teenager in the brig if he thought I’d be soft enough to feel bad for you.”

“Don’t you have a city to rule?” Thresh asked.

“I’m supervising this voyage,” the woman replied, “considering its value.  Don’t you have souls to collect?”

“Can’t really carry out my collections when I can’t move through the Mist,” Thresh replied, “besides, I was planning to find my family before that fucking Demacian showed up.”

The woman smirked, “You think they’re alive?”

“My people live a lot longer than you think.”

“ _I can confirm that_!” Rhaast interjected, catching the woman’s attention.  She shrugged it off and straightened up.

“I want to know something of my own,” the woman admitted, looking to Thresh, “I’ve noticed that despite going almost anywhere during the Harrowing, you don’t attempt to enter the Temple of Nagakabouros.  Most other spirits do.”

“The temple is sacred to more than just the people of the Serpent Isles,” Thresh commented.  She should’ve known this.  Paylangi knew this, so why was she asking?

The woman gave an affirming nod, acknowledging the truth in the statement, “Lucian doesn’t see you as honest, did you know that?”

“I don’t peddle in falsehoods,” Thresh bared his teeth.

“I know that,” the woman nodded, then smiled softly, “but how will you get Lucian to believe that?”

Thresh didn’t say a word, but his meaning was plain.  The woman gestured to her crewmen.

“Take them back to the brig; we’ll see to the thief when we arrive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm totally not prolonging the inevitable.
> 
> Also yes, Rhaast is a recurring boy.

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME I'M HERE TO FUCK SHIT UP WHO WANTS POPTARTS?  
> BTW the chapter rotation goes Thresh-Vladimir-Taliyah and every three chapters it resets.  
> If I added all the champions set to appear in this fic that tag would be the longest.  
> SO I'M NOT GOING TO DO THAT!  
> Also fair warning I have no idea how blood magic works so there are several scenes in this where I treat it like blood-bending because like, why can't he control blood inside the body if he can control it outside?  
> So I just decided he can now.  
> Which leads me to point #2:  
> CHARACTERS WILL BE ABLE TO DO THINGS THEY CANNOT DO IN-GAME.  
> They're generally minor things but yeah, keep it in mind.  
> Tell me what you think and I'll see y'all next chapter.  
> -The Jashinist


End file.
